Every day, on my way to work I pass by the cemetery where my mom is buried.
Every day, I say hello to her in my head.
Every day, it occurs to me how strange it is that she is there and I am here. She used to be here, above the ground, driving her car to work, like I do now, trying not to honk at the Long Island traffic.
Every day, I remember her story ended, the final chapter closed while we all hoped the author would write a sequel, you know, where things got better, because there was no way the story could have ended like that.
Every day, I think of her neighbors. Like the little girl who shares her tombstone, the two year old a few away, the eighteen year old who never saw the 60s, the man who saw a whole century. She is one of millions who have died, many whose book ended too early.
Every day, I wonder who they are. My mom lives in my memory, I know her story. Do these others have stories? I just see a name and a few dates, but there must be more to it than that. To strangers in the cemetery, my mother is a name and a few dates, but I know she is more than that. Do the others live on in anyone’s memory? Are they still talked about at dinner? Or are there pictures kept in someone’s photo album?
Or do their stories go untold, washed away by the tides of time?
Daily Prompt: Honk